Chasing the Sun (34 page)

Ashford shot her a look of disapproval for interrupting. “Yes.”

“I thought the bank held the loan,” Molly persisted. Ignoring her, Ashford directed his answer to Jessica. “Lockley, at People’s Bank, sold it to me.”

“Indeed.” Jessica’s expression showed polite interest, although Molly could see fury behind her brown eyes. “I wonder why?”

“I can be very convincing.”

“You misunderstand.” Jessica gave a condescending smile. “I was wondering why you would have such a deep interest in the business of Wilkins Cattle and Mining that you felt the need to buy our loan?”

A dark flush spread across Ashford’s scarred cheeks. “I have long had an interest in the doings of RosaRoja, ever since I was a reluctant guest here almost four years ago.”

“Have you? How odd. I scarcely remember that time. Although, I suppose I have been too busy to dwell on such inconsequential things.”

The flush deepened. “I, too, had forgotten. Until I saw that poster at the sheriff’s office in Socorro. Tell me, Jessica, my dear, did John Crawford ever find you? He was offering such a large reward for your return.”

What poster?
Molly glanced at Jessica. And who was John Crawford?

Apparently, the poster was news to Blake too. Up until that comment, he had been the picture of bored impatience—stifling yawns, jiggling the foot crossed over his knee, drumming his fingers on the arm of the couch. But with those words, his gaze sharpened and the fidgeting stopped.

“He did,” Jessica answered, her lips scarcely moving as she spoke.

“At first,” Ashford went on with that oily smile, “I thought Crawford might be part of your widowed husband’s family. But the sheriff assured me you were never married. Imagine my surprise, dear Jessica, after that elaborate story you gave us about your poor deceased husband. Although, considering you were
enceinte
at the time, I can certainly understand why. And how is your son, by the way? The one you were carrying when you first came to RosaRoja?”

Molly had a hard time hiding her shock. She knew Ben wasn’t Brady’s natural son, but it had never been an issue worth exploring. Brady was as devoted to the boy as he was to all his children, and Molly had always assumed Ben was Jessica’s son from a previous marriage. Not that it mattered. Such mixed-matched families were not uncommon. Weren’t she and Hank raising her sister’s children? What was odd was that Ashford would be so boorish as to make mention of it.

And that Jessica would be so angry that he had.

Blake grinned, all but salivating at the prospect of drawn blood.

Ashford feigned surprise when he saw the thin-lipped fury on Jessica’s face and the surprise on Molly’s. “Oh, dear. I hope I haven’t misspoken. You
have
told your family that he’s a bastard, haven’t you, Jessica?”

If the little weasel had hoped to send Jessica into a dithering tizzy, he had sadly underestimated the woman he was trying so hard to intimidate.

“Oh, Stanley.” Jessica’s chuckle almost sounded sincere. “You were always such a small-minded, ineffectual little man. Of course Brady knows. But I wonder why you dwell so on past history that is absolutely no concern of yours? Surely you didn’t harbor some small hope of you and I ...” The words trailed off into another chuckle. “How absurd.”

Then, as abruptly as it had come, the laughter died. Drawing herself up to her full height, Jessica leveled at Ashford the steely-eyed glare that could freeze children in their tracks. “You dare to come into my house with your sly innuendoes and call my son—and Brady’s son—a bastard. Do you think to humiliate me? Frighten me? Make me bow my head in shame? You pathetic creature.”

Mr. Ashford opened his mouth, but Jessica cut him off with a dismissive wave as if she were shooing away some small bothersome insect. “Do please leave, gentlemen. We have nothing more to say to each other.”

Blake ended his long silence. “But what about the—”

“The loan will be repaid,” Jessica cut in with another wave. “Have no fear of that.”

“I do hope so.” Ashford uncrossed his legs, smoothed his trousers over his knees, then rose. “Because there’s more at stake here than just a smelter.”

“Indeed?”

Blake stood too. By the smirk on his bulldog face, Molly guessed he was enjoying watching Ashford do battle with Jessica and lose.

“The future ownership of the ranch hangs in the balance, as well, Jessica.” Ashford gave a reptilian smile. “As part of the loan, the deed to the ranch was given as surety. So if you don’t pay on time, your husband will lose both the smelter and the ranch.”

Some of the color left Jessica’s face, but her bland expression didn’t falter. “That doesn’t signify, does it? Insomuch as the loan will be repaid in full on time. Now, I say again. Please leave. I would dislike having to pull our workers from their more important tasks just to come in here and throw you out.”

Anger flashed behind Ashford’s cold brown eyes. He turned away then stopped, fished something from his inside coat pocket, and turned back. “By the way, the woman my associate here, Mr. Blake, brought out to the ranch a while back ... is her name perchance Desiree Etheridge?”

When Jessica didn’t respond, Ashford pushed on. “Because if it is, you might be interested in this.” He held out the folded piece of paper. “Mr. Blake found this notice tacked to the board outside the sheriff’s office in Val Rosa. Quite a surprise, I must say. Well, then.” Another mocking nod. “I’ll look for you in a few days.” Then he turned and, trailed by Blake, left the room.

“That vile, malicious little popinjay,” Jessica railed as soon as the door closed behind them. With shaking hands, she unfolded the paper he had given her and quickly read it. “Oh, my word.” Thrusting the paper toward Molly, she sank into the other chair by the hearth, a stunned expression on her face. “I can’t believe this.”

Molly studied the paper, then looked up at Jessica in shock. “Daisy? A murderess? That’s ridiculous.”

“Blast! What a mess. Jack going missing, then some loan of which I know absolutely nothing, and now this.” Taking back the paper, Jessica read it over again then slumped against the cushions. For a minute or two she stared up at the rafters, a discouraged, resigned look on her face. “I’m sure you have questions,” she finally said. “About Ben.”

“Not a one.” Molly smiled. “But I’m always willing to listen.”

Leaning forward, Jessica reached out and put her hand over Molly’s and gave it a brief squeeze. “I bless the day you came to us, dear sister. And not just because your nursing skills enabled you to save Hank and the twins, but because you have brought so much to my life.” Another squeeze, then she sat back again, her eyes suspiciously bright. After a moment, she cleared her throat and said simply, “I was raped.”

Molly had suspected it ever since Ashford had called Ben a bastard. Now hearing the words and seeing the pain in Jessica’s face brought up a well of anger for her friend. “John Crawford?”

Jessica nodded. “My sister’s husband. He’s dead now. It’s a long, sordid story. Brady knows. His brothers too. I would have told you, but—”

“You owe me no explanations,” Molly cut in. “I’m sorry you suffered such a thing. But I’m happy to see you’ve put it behind you. Not all women can.”

Jessica gave a watery smile. “I owe that to Brady. He saved my life as well as my soul.” Then she took a deep breath and hiked her chin, transforming into yet another Jessica—the one who had survived rape and killed Sancho Ramirez and brought such order and joy to this chaotic family. “But now we have another sister to save. I don’t believe this rubbish for a moment.” Crumpling the poster in her fist, she stuffed it into her pocket and rose. “But just in case that despicable bounder Ashford comes back, we must come up with a plan.”

Waving Molly along, she marched toward the kitchen with long, purposeful strides. “Let’s go find Daisy. Between us we’ll figure out what to do to keep her safe. And then, by God, before this day is over, I intend to have a long talk with my dolt of a husband.”

THE BEAR RUSHED TO THE WATER’S EDGE, THEN STOPPED, bellowing in rage.

“Come on, you bastard!” Desperate to keep the animal focused on him rather than the blowdown where he was certain Jack was hiding, Brady threw rocks as fast as he could. “Come on!”

The bear swung its massive head side to side, growling and snapping its jaws.

“Come on, you sonofabitch!” Brady grabbed more rocks, then stopped when he noticed movement at the blowdown.

A figure crawled through the logs.

“Jack! Jack!” he yelled.

His brother took no notice and continued hobbling around and behind the piled timbers.

Brady noted the bloody rag belted to Jack’s thigh and more blood staining his torn shirt. But he was moving. He was alive. Elation gave him new strength. Redoubling his efforts, he moved back and forth along his side of the creek, yelling and slinging rocks.

But the bear had seen Jack, too, and had turned to look back at the blowdown. Rising on its back legs, it lifted its snout to test the air.

Brady yelled louder, throwing with both hands.

Ignoring the rocks bouncing off its matted fur, the bear dropped onto all fours and started toward the logs where Jack crouched, partially hidden by timbers and boulders.

What the hell was Jack doing? Why didn’t he stay in the blowdown?

With a shaking hand, Brady whipped out the Colt and emptied the last two rounds directly into the bear. He knew they hit true because the animal flinched as the slugs slammed into its side. Yet the bear continued toward Jack.

Frustration and fear sent Brady’s mind spinning in circles. He started to reload, then cursed when he realized he hadn’t brought a spare cylinder. Maybe if he jumped into the water, the current would take him into the logjam and he could work his way to the other side from there.

But the bear had caught sight of his brother behind the blowdown. It started to run.

Brady watched, dread hammering in his chest. Then to his utter astonishment, he watched Jack rise up, yelling and waving his arms over his head, almost as if he actually wanted the bear to charge.

Christamighty! What is he doing?

In helpless panic, Brady raced up and down the bank, watching the bear draw closer and closer to where his brother stood waving him on.

“Jack! Go back! GO BACK!” Driven to do something—anything—Brady tore into his saddlebags until he found the hatchet. A useless thing, but it was all he had. He couldn’t just stand there and watch a bear maul his brother.

Rushing back to the water, Brady hefted the hatchet in his hand. The bear was almost at the blowdown. Praying his aim was true, Brady drew back his arm and threw as hard as he could.

Then oddly, time seemed to slow.

Flipping end over end in a high, looping arc, the hatchet seemed to float across the water while the bear lumbered on, its movements slowed to a dreamlike pace.

Jack stopped waving and sank back down into the rocks behind the blowdown.

The hatchet reached the peak of the arc and started its slow downward tumble.

All of Brady’s senses seemed to sharpen. Details became acutely distinct—the flash of sunlight off the hatchet blade with each rotation, the smell of wet earth, the hollow sound of his own heartbeat inside his head.

Then the hatchet struck.

And bounced off the bear’s back with as much effect as the rocks had done.

And time speeded up again.

Brady roared in anguish as the bear charged Jack, claws raking the air, its huge jaws open on a snarl. And only then did Brady see the thick lance that his brother held, one end braced in the rocks, the sharpened tip of the other end pointed up toward the bear’s chest as it lunged through the air.

Brady froze, staring in dumbfounded terror, his heart beating so hard he could feel it kicking against his ribs.

He saw the tip of the lance pierce the bear. Saw the bear jerk, then fold, as its weight and momentum impaled it farther onto the lance. Saw it slam into Jack, the lance protruding from its back as they both went down behind the timbers.

Then nothing.

“Jack!” Brady shouted, running forward and almost falling into the rushing current before he caught himself. “JACK!”

No answer. Nothing moved.

Cursing in panic, Brady rushed over to the rope, thinking if he could lasso one of the logs in the logjam, he could use it as an anchor and pull himself across. But his hands were shaking so badly, he couldn’t even tie the knot.

Then he heard a muffled sound, like a shout. Dropping the rope, he rushed to the edge of the water to see movement where the bear and Jack had gone down.

“Jack!” he yelled, his voice so hoarse now it came out more of a croak.

For a moment, nothing, then his brother’s bloody head appeared over the top of the timbers. Brady’s breath caught as Jack slowly straightened. He was drenched in blood, his head, face, shirt. He came slowly around the blowdown and hobbled toward the water, using a stick for a crutch, and gripping the hatchet in his free hand.

“Jack, are you all right?” Brady yelled.

Jack swiped the arm holding the hatchet across his bloody face. He looked at Brady and said something, but Brady couldn’t hear it.

Seeing that his brother was alive and moving brought up such a swell of emotion within Brady, his eyes burned and his throat grew so tight he could hardly draw in a breath.

Jack stopped at the edge of the water. “Kate and Daisy?” he yelled.

Brady nodded vigorously. “Okay. They’re okay and back at the house.”

Jack closed his eyes. The hatchet slipped from his hand to flop in the mud. Brady thought his brother might fall down, too, but he staggered and seemed to catch himself. After several deep breaths, he bent over, and using the crutch as a brace, slowly lowered himself down onto his knees. Planting his hands in the water, he plunged his face into the current, shook his head several times, then came up blowing and spitting.

Brady watched blood wash down Jack’s face in pink rivulets and realized none of it was his brother’s. The lance must have pierced the bear’s heart, just as Jack had intended. He’d had it planned from the start—the sharpened lance, bracing it in the rocks, taunting the bear into attacking. An amazing thing, and damned clever. Brady grinned, filled with pride. A wonderment, that’s what it was.